The Direwolf of Essos
by Irish Ghost
Summary: Lyanna wasn't Ned Stark's only sister. This other sister, Sarai Stark, has been gone for a long time, since the Battle of the Bells. She has been in Essos for sixteen years, living as Syrio Forel's foster daughter and student of the water dance. Now, she returns to Westeros to serve the realm. However, what does serving the realm truly mean? Does it mean serving a king, or an idea?
1. Chapter 1

It had been sixteen years, sixteen long years since she had last set foot on this land. From a bystander's point of view, she was an unescorted woman of mothering age leaning against the railing of a Pentoshi trader ship dressed in a bright form-fitting Tyroshi tunic and pants with boots on her feet, a sword strapped to her waist. Inside of her was an entirely different story. To say that she was nervous was an adequate description: her many lessons had made her accept the fear that was growing inside of her, rather than allow it to control her. Therefore, whatever fear or nerves she felt were minimal.

She had made the right choice in coming first to King's Landing. She did not think that she had the will, right now, to face her brother. Besides, she had business to attend to. Plus, it was an easier way to come home. The Free Cities were beautiful, but it was summer all the time. King's Landing was in the throes of one of the longest summers in the history of Westeros. The North, if she remembered correctly, would still have snow scattered on the ground in the high places, with its wind biting cold needles into her skin.

Her mind was so enthralled in the scenery around her, that she almost forgot why she was coming to King's Landing first. Business came before pleasure… always.

"I have been watching you, Sarai." A man from behind her spoke up. She heard what he spoke, heard his footsteps against the wooden deck, but did not turn to face him. "I have seen your body tense, seen your face go blank. You always do that when you are upset. You are nervous about coming home, yes?"

"It has been sixteen years, Syrio Forel." Now she turned to face the man standing beside her. About a head shorter than she, his lithe body was hidden underneath baggy chestnut trousers and a cream tunic covered by a vest to match his pants. His curly brown hair, un-oiled and short around his face, and his beak of a nose set him apart from the others on this Pentoshi ship. At his waist was a well-used and well-cared-for sword. "Sixteen years since I was brought to Volantis, and fourteen since I met you: twelve years as your apprentice and an acolyte to the God that is Death, four traveling with both my former master and my other teachers. We have been traveling for two and a half weeks, and now that I see a wintery land in front of me, I feel that this might not have been the best idea."

"Child, what would you have me say? The Lord of Braavos has granted my resignation from my post with his death. Let young men fight for young men, I say. I am not so old, though, to not enjoy travelling to a new place. Who knows? Maybe this, the Seven Kingdoms, will see me becoming a wiser man." His bearded chin nodded a few times. "Yes, maybe so."

"Not a wiser man alive is greater than you, Syrio." Now they both leaned against the railing, staying out of the sailors' way as they bustled about their work.

"Go home, Sarai. Your brother must still be searching for you." She shook her head, placing her head in her hands and sighing. He did not understand the torrent of feelings bursting inside of her like it was going to kill her.

"Sixteen years, Syrio! If he does not consider me dead by now, then how can he welcome home a ghost? I am not the pigheaded ten-year-old girl that ran away from her septa and her maester because they bade her not to play with her brothers. I am no longer the little girl that still believes that her father despises her for looking like his wife, that her maester and her gods-cursed septa hate her for her stubbornness and for her inability to listen and behave like a lady." Just because she said the words, did not make them true in her heart.

A tear threatened to fall, but she refused its passing. "My brother probably does not even remember me, or when we would run in the wolfswood and play at soldiers in the winter's snow. What if he has married and had children to replace the ill memories that were part of my leaving? What if I am no longer welcome home? I can still remember the screams, Syrio…"

The shorter man placed a hand on her shoulder, seeing how much this trip was distressing her. "Child, what do we say to Death?" His voice was soothing, like the ripples of a tide pool. "What do we say to our fears, our anger, and our worries as we offer them to Death?"

"Not today." It took a few minutes, but it was time that they could spare. Sarai focused on the sword belted at her own waist, breathing in and out as she calmed herself. She brought her mind back to centre, her emotions back under her control. "Not today." This time, she sounded far surer of herself.

"There. See? Death has not taken his toll yet from us. It is not our time." Syrio took his hand away. "Sarai, I have watched you grow for twelve years, as you say. In the last twelve years, you have become someone that your brother should be proud of. You are my protégé, and the protégé of the First Wife of the Sealord. You are a lady, both in training and in bearing. You are from a noble line. Now embrace the strength that is your heritage, and face your brother. Tell him what happened to you. He will understand."

His callused hand slapped down on the wood. "Now, I came over because the captain told me that we are arriving shortly. We must pack and be ready to leave." She sighed once more and followed him below deck.

For the price of five silver stags, Sarai had afforded a berth of her own. The captain insisted on making her bunk by herself. She was perfectly comfortable with sharing a berth with the sailors, but it was they that were frightened of her. Well they should be, Syrio reassured her. She had a feared name among the Free Cities of Essos as an alarmingly beautiful and deadly water dancer, with no loyalty to anyone save to her god Death and her foster-father Syrio Forel. Never had she lost a bout since she was fourteen and only two years into her apprenticeship.

Closing the door behind her, Sarai relished the humid air as she opened her trunk and changed her clothes. The bright colors and form-fitting clothes of Tyrosh were a comfort to her, but they were an oddity in her homeland. However, being in King's Landing allowed her the chance to dress colorfully before she returned North. She slipped into a forest green linen tunic, a leather vest that served as a corset, and moleskin pants: simple enough, but there were a sign that she was no common woman. The tunic bore no decoration as she tied a chestnut-colored riding cloak over it all, choosing a bronze chain instead of silver or gold.

Her boots, buttery Pentoshi leather lined with rabbit fur, concealed two thin knives. Another two were buckled to her forearms underneath her tunic, the blades beneath two thick leather bracelets that she habitually wore. A larger and more obvious dagger made its home at her waist on the opposite side of her sword. All five daggers, and her main sword, were made of Valyrian steel and were all gifts from Syrio; he told her when he had given her the set that they had been passed down through his family, and that she was now his daughter by claim but not blood. She was the last of his family.

With her sword and dagger at her waist, she looked right frightening to anyone. Still, she needed her blades to feel comfortable. Oh, her sword was more than enough to keep her safe, but never could she rely on only one weapon: that, Syrio had also reassured her many times, was the easiest way to lose a fight.

Rifling through her cosmetics, Sarai found what she was looking for: a thin paste that she had made to cover up her tattoos. Those, for a certainty, would make her stand out in this metropolis. Marring her features, she would never be called 'beautiful', or even 'fair'. She was once beautiful, but she was just a child then. The praises of her father were a childhood obligation that he fulfilled, nothing more. But still, thinking of him made her heart bruise even more. She had experimented long and hard to make it the exact shade of her tanned skin, but it was worth it to not have to bear the inquisitive glares or the discriminatory bias as she travelled.

Now that she was properly dressed, Sarai finished packing up her belongings into the two trunks that were hers since Syrio made her his apprentice. In one, she stacked her books, carefully wrapped in oilskin. Syrio made her study these tomes time and time again, since they were the histories of her land and his. Wars and peace, summer and winter, every time held a lesson to learn. Thirty in number, they contained notes on the first two wars of Westeros, the Andal Invasions, the Rhoynar Invasion, the War of Conquest and the arrival of the Targaryens to what is now the Seven Kingdoms, the Dance (and eventual extermination) of Dragons, the War of the Usurper, and the Greyjoy Rebellion, as well as the various battles and wars of Essos before and after the formation of the Free Cities.

Included in their numbers was a book of names of all Houses of Westeros, both old and new, containing their arms, their words, their history, and all of the famous members of the line. Syrio made it very clear when she asked him a year into her apprenticeship: she was from Westeros, and he was not going to replace her father. Therefore, she would learn about her father's and her mother's peoples, as well as his own. All knowledge was worth learning, another mantra drilled into her at a young age.

In among them, were the works of various philosophers. Sarai had picked these up on her own, reading through them and teaching herself how to think. It was not an easy task for a fourteen year old, but she undertook it with the same determination that led her through her countless lessons of the water dance.

The rest of her belongings in the other trunk were simple enough: the bright colors of her Tyroshi clothes and the elegant clothes of Braavos and Pentos that she folded anew, a small wooden box of jewelery and cosmetics that she allowed herself to keep (all of it was a gift from the wife of the Lord of Braavos who took her under her wing and groomed her to be a proper Eastern lady), a kit for her weapons care, her extra sword and spare weapons, her bow and quiver of arrows, her sewing kit, her kit of potions, salves, bandages, and needles and thread, spare shoes and boots, and her personal grooming kit. She was no vain Pentoshi or Myrman, but let it not be known that Sarai Stoneheart of the House of Forel did not keep herself clean and presentable.

As she locked the trunk up, her hand rested on the pendant under her tunic. This was the only thing left of hers before her journey to the Free Cities. It was a gift from her father before he left for King's Landing. Even though it reminded her of home and the sadness that she had learned to associate with it, it was still a reminder of her line. Never did she take it off.

There was something else there on that pendant: a small ring made of black stone. She fingered the black ring for a moment, before taking it off and placing it on her finger. That would serve as her reminder, always. She would never forget that promise, nor the person that she made it to. If the realm was going to remember her name, then it was going to remember her as one of the few that served only the realm.

Looking around the cabin for anything she might have missed, Sarai sighed once more and locked the door behind her. She walked down to the lower deck, to where she was able to stable her horse.

Vazyol whickered at the sight of his mistress. His dame, Vorsakh, was Sarai's first horse. She had been a present from her Dothraki teacher before leaving Vaes Dothrak. Vorsakh, which translated to 'flame' in the Common Tongue, was so beautiful. She could travel for days on little water and little food, yet could gallop for a day on end. Her blood bay coat shone when she would whip her black mane around. She had died bringing Vazyol into this world five years ago.

Vazyol, or 'Stormborn', was just that: born in the middle of the greatest thunderstorm in the history of Braavos. Sarai had run down to the Sealord's stables and stayed the night with his mother. She had known that Vorsakh was pregnant, but she had no idea that her time was so soon. Vazyol literally slid out of her, but the bleeding never stopped. She watched, helpless, as Vorsakh bled for what felt like hours, waiting for a miracle. Finally, she had ended her suffering, sending her to the Shadow Lands with her ancestors to run forever.

"_Hazze, hazze, Vayzol. Yer laz karlinat save, leshitof." _(There, there, Vazyol. You will gallop again, soon.) Sarai grabbed onto the rope halter and calmed him down, stroking his storm grey coat. At that moment, she felt the lurch of the ship as they settled into the harbor berth. After so long, Sarai was home once more.

Shaking away the thought, she walked Vazyol upstairs to the main deck where Syrio was waiting for her again. The gangplank was being lowered as they waited patiently. Sarai turned to Syrio, feeling the tears come to her eyes once again. "Send a raven to me when you reach wherever you mean to reach, Syrio Forel." Grasping his forearm in hers, she spoke her goodbye. "Until we meet again, my friend and father_."_

"May that time come quickly, little Sarai Brighteyes. _Valar morghulis._" The use of her childhood name made a few tears fall.

"_Valar doehaeris, _my foster-father." Working faster as to not disgrace herself any further, she kissed Syrio on both cheeks and embraced him tightly. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the smell of spice and leather that she always associated with him before turning away and not looking back as she walked down onto solid ground, leading Vayzol behind her..

It was easy to fall into anonymity in King's Landing. Common folk and peasants were surrounding her as she travelled to the Market District, not far from the harbours. The smells of spices and perfumes, with the undertones of sex and death, mingled in the air. Sarai sought out a raven's rookery, and sent out a message. Hopefully, he would receive it and meet her before the day was done with.

Working quickly, she found lodgings for herself and Vazyol for the night. The inn was off the beaten path, but it was comfortable. She was not going to stay longer than one night, long enough to book passage on a ship sailing to White Harbour and to get enough supplies for a ten-day journey.

During the dinner hour, a man in a hooded cloak came towards her table. Sitting down across from her, Sarai motioned for a flagon of wine and two cups. "So, you received my message."

"Yes, I did, my dear." The unctuous voice slithered out from the shadows of the cowl. "I was expecting you to come later in the season."

"Well, with the death of the Sealord, my foster father wanted to speed up our arrival to King's Landing. There are plenty of ships leaving Braavos and Pentos every day." She leaned back in her chair, sipping at the wine in her hand.

"You are still willing to join our enterprise? There may be times that you may have to do things that you will regret, or wish that you would not do."

Sarai sipped her wine. "I am. Our friend from Pentos already asked me your question."

"Speaking of Pentos, our mutual friend has passed along all that he knows." The ringed hand passed sealed letters from his hand to hers. "Do destroy them when you've finished, my dear. We've waited too long for things to go astray now."

"My lord Varys, surely you know that my training in Braavos has been quite thorough. How many Westerosi can claim training at the hands of a Faceless Man?" Sarai sipped more of her wine and tucked the letters into her tunic.

"When will the others be joining you?" The hooded man, the Master of Whisperers, asked quietly.

"In a year, my lord. My foster father taught me one thing: keep your allies close, your enemies closer, and your family closest of all. He will never inherit, and besides, he always wanted to see Westeros." Sarai finished her wine, and tapped a finger on the table. "For the realm, my lord. For no king, no queen. For the realm."

"For the realm, my dear." Just like the shadows and little birds of his trade, the master of whisperers slipped out of the inn as if he were never there in the first place. Sarai headed to bed, and slept easily that night.

The trip to White Harbour was quiet. She did not stray far out of her berth, not even for the meals. The only time she left was at night to gaze up at the stars, or to feed Vayzol. She climbed up the rigging and sat on the mainmast, staying out of the way of the sailors.

On the last day, she had pondered what to wear. For the longest time, she wanted to wear her clothes from Braavos, but her re-appearance after so many years would be shocking enough. Instead, she went for the colors of her house: thick black breeches and a thick long-sleeved tunic, white with intricate grey and silver embroidery around the hems that went down to her knees. All of these clothes were made from heavy wool to keep out the cold; even though it was still summertime, the North always felt the bite of winter. She took care in doing up her belt around her waist; on it were her sword, her quiver, and her moneybag. Over it all was buckled an unadorned riding cloak with a fur-lined hood. The clasp at her throat was an undecorated silver chain.

She tucked her sword, Riptide, in its scabbard, and carried her bow out with her. With her two trunks, she would need a small wagon. It was unfortunate, because she was planning to travel off the beaten path. Still, she would camp out by the rivers. Everything could be adapted to new circumstances.

The White Harbor was bustling with merchants and sailors this time of year. It was easy for her to slip into the crowd and not be too noticeable. If anyone saw a lady purchasing a horse-drawn wagon and gear, no one commented. Nor did anyone comment when the same lady asked for directions along the White Knife to the Kingsroad. When someone did go to question her, she was already gone and on her way.

It was quiet as Sarai travelled, keeping her hood up at all times as she rode along the Kingsroad. She hunted for her meals, using the gear that she had purchased to start fires and make her soup. When night came around, she made shelters of branches and her cloak, leaving her horse loosely tethered to graze. The stars were different here, not the same. Sarai learned to accept it anew. Every morning before heading out, she tore down her makeshift camp and made it seem like nobody had slept there for the night.

On the third day of travelling, she reached the Kingsroad. Within another day or two, she would reach her destination: Winterfell, the ancestral home of House Stark. The nerves within her began to writhe with fear once more until she brought herself back to centre with an admonition. Now was not the time to turn cowardly, not when she was so close.

On the fifth day, she was stopped by a patrol on the boundaries of Winterfell. One of them, a young brown-haired man dressed in chain mail, grabbed the reins of Vayzol; he neighed angrily at that, but Sarai patted his withers to reassure him. The leader of them approached her side and held his sword in his hand. "Who are you? What is your business here?" His accent was thick, nearly rendering his words incomprehensible.

"Are visitors no longer welcome in Winterfell, gentlemen? I have come a long way, seeking an audience with the Lord Stark." Sarai pitched her voice low and quiet, sounding like a lady incapable of doing violence. Her Common was not too rusty, but even she knew that she sounded like a foreigner. Her left hand stayed close to her dagger, just in case this situation became out of hand.

"And why do you seek an audience with Lord Stark?" The same brash young man continued to question her.

Sarai had hoped not to do this until she was in the main hall, but the guardsman left her no choice. With one slow hand, she reached up and took off her cowl to face the men without disguise or shadows.

The guardsmen took in night black hair tied in a tight braid, smooth as silk and shining in the afternoon light. They took in the tanned skin, the look of someone that had spent much time under the sun. They took in the blue-grey eyes that pierced them with a single look, holding them all in place. They saw the features of their lord peering out clearly at them. The only thing marring those patrician features was a tattoo on her left cheek, a tattoo of a closed fist.

Sarai sat straight in her saddle and stared at the four guardsmen that had questioned her. "Tell the Lord Stark that Sarai, daughter of Rickard and first of her name, of the House Stark, his younger sister, the one lost to him for sixteen long years, has returned to Winterfell."


	2. Chapter 2

Eddard Stark was not an easy man to shake. He had lived through two long and bloody wars, had seen many friends die at his side and at his command. He was the Warden of the North, a man of the old ways and was often called to be executioner for deserters of the Night's Watch. He had seen his friend Robert placed on the throne when he won it from the Mad King Aerys Targaryen. He had a loving and faithful wife in Catelyn Tully, and six wonderful children, five of them by his wife. His men were loyal to him. He had everything he wanted.

But when Jory Cassel came to him with a report that someone claiming to be Sarai Stark was riding up to Winterfell under armed escort, his heart stopped for a moment. For a moment, he was re-living the deaths of his father and brother: that same heart-wrenching fear and shock, the same blinding rage that someone would dare attempt such a farce. Dismissing Jory, he walked back to his study and picked up something from his desk. It was a small statue of his sister's likeness.

Sarai… his younger sister. She was born the same year that he was sent to the Eyrie with Robert to be fostered under Jon Arryn, a true Stark from the moment she first opened her eyes. Even at a tender age, she was the spitting image of their mother, who died soon after Sarai's birth: the same black hair that she always brushed out with great care, blue eyes that looked right through you. She had inherited the Stark stubbornness in spades, making her a downright terror at times.

Sarai was never one to pay attention to her lessons. In letters from his father, Eddard learned that the septa and maester had their hands full with his youngest sister. Rickard had been convinced to allow the septa to begin etiquette training at four years old. Sarai would not have it: instead she would run away from the septa and train with the Stark men. She was the darling of the Stark men-at-arms, and the terror to the septa and maester. Still, she was always penitent when their father would reprimand her, but she would always try his patience.

In fact, the last words that Lord Rickard Stark spoke to her were in anger. The regret was apparent in the raven. She had been caught with one of the live swords from the armory, giving a try at twirling it around like she had seen the guards do in practice. He had yelled at her for disobeying, yet again, and had sent her to her room for the rest of the day. He had not bothered to check on her until it was too late. Afterwards, she was left in the care of the maester, the Lady of Winterfell at the age of ten. Far too much responsibility had been forced on her at a young age, but he had no other choice.

Ned ran his hands through his hair. It had been in the middle of Robert's Rebellion, and he was still full of vengeance for his brother and father. He had been in the middle of the Battle of the Bells when a raven came bearing the message that Sarai had been kidnapped from her bed. From that point on, his attention was torn. He never slept, barely ate. He sent some of his men to the Wall, down the Kingsroad; he sent them everywhere looking for a child of her description. Only when five months had passed did he discover the truth, or at least part of the truth: his younger sister had been kidnapped by slavers, and sold to the Free Cities. By then, it was too late to track her: she was as good as dead. He had no friends in the lands across the Narrow Sea. He had lost all hope.

By then, Robert had won his war. Aerys Targaryen was dead, along with every other Targaryen. Lyanna and Rhaegar were gone, and with them any chance for answers. His friend was now the king of the Seven Kingdoms, and his liegelord. Ned returned to Winterfell and ruled as its Lord and Warden of the North. He was joined by there his new wife Catelyn, his one-year-old son and heir Robb, and Jon Snow, the bastard child that he had brought home with him from the wars.

Over the years, Catelyn and he had more children. Sansa was born next, a Tully with her looks. Septa Mordane was allowed to begin teaching her at the age of six, not four. Arya was the exact opposite of Sansa, wanting to play at swords, but she at least had the patience to try the arts of a lady. Bran and Rickon, his youngest sons, were still new to the arts of leading a stronghold. Bran had been training on the bow and sword since he was five, and Rickon still had a year before he would begin. However, none of them filled the hole in his heart that the loss of his youngest sister had made.

Now, after sixteen years, Sarai had re-surfaced and was coming home. Why? Why after so long? It had to be a ruse, a trick to gouge open old wounds for the sake of seeing him vulnerable. These were the thoughts that tormented him when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

"Is it true?" Catelyn's voice was shaky. "I heard words from around the keep. Is it true, Ned?"

He placed a hand over hers, and nodded his head. "It might be true, my love. It could also be a trap." Cat left loose a gasp of terror as her hand tightened on his shoulder. He had told her about Sarai; she had barely known Sarai, since she was only ten at the time of the Harrenhal tournament. Still, she was family. "Come, Cat. She, whoever she is, is almost at the gate. Gather the children; they will want to see this." Ned stood up, holding a grip on Ice. "Bring them to the main hall."

It took only minutes, but the entire household gathered in the hall once word had gone out. Ned sat on the throne on the top of five stone stairs, the old throne of the Kings of the North before Torrhen Stark bowed down to the dragons. The children surrounded him: Robb and Jon, Sansa and Arya, and little Bran and Rickon. None of them knew what was going on, but they knew that Father had summoned them to the hall. Against the wall were Stark men-at-arms, in case this was an imposter. Ser Rodrik Cassel stood near Ned, his hand on his sword. Once all were assembled, Ned raised his hand. "Let them in."

The oak doors creaked open, showing five people coming in. Four were Stark men-at-arms, hands on the grips of their swords. In the centre was a young woman wearing the colors of his house, her hands tied behind her. Immediately, the whispers began to break out amongst all gathered. Ned saw that she wore an empty scabbard around her waist. One of the four men-at-arms had a bundle of weapons in his hands.

The woman looked so much like his Sarai that he wanted to jump up and embrace her. She had that Stark pride, her head held high as she walked towards the throne. She looked about the right age. Her hair and eyes were the right color, but her skin was darkly tanned. Every Stark had pale skin. As he looked closer for more flaws, he saw old scars around her neck similar to that of a collar or noose. There was some kind of inked design on her cheek, but it was too far away to make out any detail. If this was an imposter, then it was poorly done.

One of the men-at-arms pushed the woman to her knees before the stairs in front of the throne. She fell with a grunt, glaring up at the men that had done this to her. Ned knew that look: she was memorizing their faces so that she could plan something later. When she turned her gaze to the throne, she took a breath and chuckled a few times. The sounds echoed throughout the hall. "Well, Lord Stark, if this is how you treat your guests, I would hate to find out what it is you do to your enemies." She spoke the Common tongue, but it was accented, hinting at somewhere from the east; she spoke with a lilt and a smile.

"You claim to be Sarai Stark, my second sister." Sansa and Arya gasped together at the thought of a living aunt. Robb and Jon leaned forward from their places, their faces tight with the intent of giving away nothing for fear of hope. Ned had told them so many stories about Sarai, that it was almost as if they knew her.

"She claimed as such, my lord." One of the men-at-arms bowed to him before coming forward. "She was travelling alone on the Kingsroad, and she was armed." Gently, he placed the bundle of weapons in front of the throne for Ned's inspection. "She also claimed that she travelled from the lands across the Narrow Sea."

"By whose command do you make such a fictitious claim?" Ned placed his hands on the throne's armrests, willing them not to shake. The woman cocked her head at him, looking at him with a peer.

"My claim is my own… brother." Again, the whispers broke out amongst the gathered retainers. "I was under the aegis of a training master, to spend fourteen years learning from him and others that he considered worthy. Now that the fourteen years has been completed, he has allowed me to come home." She tried to stand, but one of the men-at-arms pushed her back down to her knees.

She glared at him. "Try that again." She made to stand up a second time, but Jory's second-in-command pushed her back down to her knees. This time, the woman claiming to be Sarai thrust her elbow between his legs and threw him to the ground, withdrawing a knife from somewhere hidden. Within minutes, the four men-at-arms surrounded her, but she defeated them all using only the pommel of the blade. Rising from the pile of unconscious men, she stood straight and cut the ropes to her hands using the blade proper.

Re-sheathing the dagger into her boot, she stood straight once more. "Now, that is far more pleasant." She turned her look towards Lord Eddard, who was now being guarded by Ser Rodrik and Theon Greyjoy. "You wish for proof?" Moving slowly and deliberately, she brought her hands behind her neck. She untied something and tossed it at the feet of Ser Rodrik. "There is my proof, ser. Give it to my brother."

Ser Rodrik picked up the object and handed it to Ned. With visibly shaky hands, Ned turned and inspected the pendant in his palm. It was a carved direwolf's head, two tiny blue stones for eyes staring back at him with a wolf's omnipotent gaze. The woman began to speak again. "Our father gave that to me before he headed for King's Landing, to face the Mad King and to get Brandon back. I had been running in the wolfswood, and I had fallen on the ice and broken my wrist. He had told me that I had the blood and the spirit of a direwolf running through me, and that I had to be careful how I used it or else I would hurt those around me. He had it carved from the heart tree itself, to remind me always that I was of the North."

She sighed. "The last words he spoke, or should I say, screamed at me were, 'Why won't you listen to me, Lyanna? You never listen! Now go to your room and do not come out until I speak to you.' He never came and spoke to me." She paused for a moment. "He even called me the wrong name; he thought that I was our sister. He never came back for me. He died in King's Landing, leaving me to rule Winterfell in his stead."

A tear was falling down her face now, but the woman was not finished talking. "I remember bandits coming into my room, gagging me and tying my hands and legs together before carrying me out on their shoulders like a bundle of logs. I saw the dead man lying crumpled on the floor outside my room. His name was Jeram, and he had been posted outside my door for my protection. I prayed to the old gods that someone would come. I thought that this was the Mad King's doing, to teach me obedience and fear so that I wouldn't try to act like Father or Brandon or you. Only when they held a dagger to my neck did I realize that this was real, that these men were taking me away from my home. They ordered me to shut up and not make a fuss, or else they would kill everyone else.

"They forced me onto their slave ship, taking me and other children from north and south of the Wall across the sea. I fought them… oh, I fought against them! Broken bones, burns, bruises, whippings… it didn't matter: I was not going to be a slave of my free will. When we reached the harbour, I received this," she pointed to the tattoo on her cheek, "to show that I was a fighter and not to be easily broken.

"We were sold at Volantis as messengers and cheap labor; some of the girls were unfortunate enough to be chosen for training in the brothels. My master, a merchant and wine-seller, took me with him for two years as I did whatever I was told to do. Usually it was to hawk his wares, get his food, and guard his goods at night. You could almost say that he took pity on me, at first.

"When we reached Braavos, my master left me to die in the streets after he beat me near to death. He told me that I was worth nothing to him, and therefore he had no use left for me. Only when I was found by my training master, and was brought into the House of the Sealord of Braavos, did anything seem to get better.

"The man that found me near to death was the one who would become the First Sword of Lord Merciel. He made a bargain with me: he would teach me all that he knew, and in fourteen years I could return home. All I had to do was listen to him and those that he deemed worthy of teaching me, and learn all of my lessons. I was twelve; I had no idea of what I was doing. All I knew is that I wanted to go home, and that this man was offering a way to do so. So I agreed." She held her hands out to her side, looking right at a shaken Ned and teary-eyed Catelyn. "Those fourteen years are over, and I have returned."

Nobody in the hall spoke a word; it was like they had become statues under the spell of Sarai's words. Time passed slowly, like the sap of the massive evergreens during the autumn frosts. No one in the hall knew really what to make of this person standing in front of them all, nor of the situation that she now presented. Only one person moved.

Catelyn Stark moved slowly from the throne, pushing Theon Greyjoy aside with the force of a gentle breeze. Moving jerkily, as if every movement she made cost her something, she slowly walked to stand in front of the woman claiming to be her daughter. Raising two slow hands, Catelyn placed them against the woman's skin, running her fingers along the contours of the stranger's face. The woman was obliging, closing her eyes as Catelyn took in the tiny scar bisecting her left eyebrow, the high cheekbones of the Stark line, and the blue-grey eyes of the Stark women.

Taking a firmer grip on the woman's face, Lady Stark moved the stranger's face and peered directly into her eyes. "I used to sing my daughters a song when they would not fall asleep. Ned had taught me it, saying that he used to sing it to Lyanna and you when he would visit Winterfell. If you are truly his sister, then you should know it." Her eyes flittered along the face, searching for something.

Sarai closed her eyes and breathed a few times, her eyelids fluttering as she delved into her memory. A small smile crossed her face as she lifted her voice. It had been so long since she had heard this tune, let alone sung it.

_Child of the Old Gods; Child of the Godswood;_

_Child of the North; Child of the Snow._

_The day is done, the night draws near._

_May the gods bless you and keep you, my dear._

_Your dreams will come soon, and always pay heed._

_Winter is coming, that is your creed._

_Child of Winter, may you always be fair_

_May the weirwood and stars make you always aware._

_Know that I love you, and that always be true._

_Now sleep, my dear one, and close your eyes blue._

The woman's singing was quiet and hoarse, as if she had not done so for a long time. Tears were running unchecked down her face, like some great invisible wall had been slowly taken down brick by brick until she was laid bare before all present. The woman was shaking, and it was only Catelyn Stark's hands on her face keeping her on her feet. Her lips were quivering and it was all that she could to keep herself together.

Catelyn did something that shocked the entire hall, including her husband. Quick as a snake, she wrapped her arms around the woman and embraced her. "Oh, Sarai!" The woman returned it in kind, fisting her hands in Catelyn's dress. "You've come back to us!" Catelyn began to kiss her forehead over and over, the tears falling freely from both of them. Sarai was sobbing in her goodsister's arms, overjoyed that she had been welcomed home. Finally, her legs had given out and both Tully and Stark fell to their knees on the floor.

Discretely, Ned dismissed his household until it was just his family present. The smile on his face was so wide that it threatened to break in two. His heart was so filled with happiness that it would have cracked his chest open. He stood from his seat and walked with great restraint before Sarai and Catelyn. He knelt before her, the happiness now tampered with guilt as he got a closer look at the tattoo on her cheek, the scars on her neck.

"Sarai?" He gently loosed Cat's arms, turning his sister around so that he could get his closer look. There… now he could see it. There was that gleam in her eyes that looked like his sister. There, bisecting her eyebrow, was the scar that she gave herself when she fell to the ground in the weirwood: she was only three, but she always could run before she could walk. Father had held her in his arms as Maester Luwin stitched the cut together. It was one of the few times that she managed to sit still, but the tears fell down her face as she wailed out her fury. Father had wrote to him describing the events in one of his monthly ravens.

He looked into her eyes, and wondered what had happened to his sister to change her so. Father wrote that she was like a direwolf become human: always growling and never willing to listen. She, apparently, would rather run and fight than stay and learn her lessons. Her inner wolf now seemed to be under control, since last he saw her. There was no anger or fury written on her face. Instead, there was control, almost a sense of serenity or understanding. How had this happened? What had happened to her? Why, now, had she decided to come back? These questions would need to be addressed, and hopefully sooner than later.

"Brother." She gently wiped away her tears, trying her best not to show just how vulnerable she truly was.

"Sarai." He gently wrapped his arms around her, bringing her closer to him. His chin rested on her shoulder, so he could whisper in her ear. "Forgive me. I should have tried harder…"

She broke away from him, smiling up at him. "Eddard, there's nothing to forgive. You were off fighting a war, and I was here performing my duties to the best that I could." She chuckled. "We both are Starks that way." She untangled her legs and helped her brother and goodsister to stand, embracing them both at the same time. "I forgave him for yelling at me a long time ago. Neither you nor Father were the ones to send the slavers after me, nor were you the men that brought me to Volantis."

Now that the three of them had finished their emotional moments, Ned turned to the dais where his man-at-arms deposited Sarai's weapons. He picked up the sword. A bravo's sword, it was lighter than his broadsword. The blade was thinner like a needle, but he saw the ripple marks in the blade from countless foldings and hammering. As he moved it in the torchlight, he held back a gasp as he recognized the Valyrian steel: the sword and its matching knives and daggers were of superior make.

The bow, as well, was of extraordinary make. Ned ran his hands over it, appreciating the solid feel of it as well as its slight weight. It was not wood, but the black material was strong. As he lifted it to test the bowstring, he could barely pull it back. What was it made of?

"These are weapons fit for a warrior, Sarai." He handed them back to her, watching her sheathe her blades with the ease of long practice. What, exactly, was she taught in Braavos that made her so accustomed to blades? She did mention that she had been taught by the First Sword of Braavos, but what did that entitle?

"That they are." She nodded to him before turning to the rest of the gathered family. "These are your children?" Ned just nodded, never taking his eyes off from his sister.

"This is Robb, the eldest." Catelyn started the introductions. "And this is Jon Snow." Sarai heard the slight sneer in her voice. Robb looked like his mother, but with Ned's eyes. Jon was a Stark through and through. He bore more of Lyanna's and Ned's features than Brandon or she did.

Sarai walked closer to them. "Robb, and Jon." She wrapped her arms around them. "You must tell me more about yourselves when we have time. I have missed so much."

Laughter rang out as Catelyn got Sarai's attention. "Sarai, you have other nieces and nephews as well." Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon all moved cautiously in front of the dais before the stranger that called herself their aunt. Their gazes all read of different emotions, confusion being chief among them.

"This is Sansa." Sansa, all of twelve, curtsied at the lady. She bore the looks of her mother, a Tully through and through. With a clean face, clean hands, and a clean dress, it was clear that Sansa took to heart all of the lessons that Sarai herself hated as a child.

"Milady aunt, welcome to Winterfell." Sarai cocked an eyebrow; this one had learned her lessons well from the septa.

She knelt before her oldest niece, using two fingers to lift her chin up and stare into her face. "Sansa… Well, dear one. You certainly look like your mother." Gently, she wrapped her arms around her. Sansa took a few moments, but she returned the gesture. The young girl smelled of clean cotton and faintly of flowers. When they separated, Sarai smiled at her. "It would make me happy if you call me Sarai, or… aunt?" Sansa nodded and returned the smile.

Catelyn cleared her throat. "This is Arya. She is eleven." Unlike Sansa, Arya's looks echoed her father through and through. Her dark brown hair was tangled and dirty. Her dress was torn at the hems. A little dirt was on her face. Sarai chuckled a little: Arya looked just like she did when she was a child and still living in Winterfell.

"Why do you wear a sword?" Arya did not call her aunt, did not curtsey. She just spoke what she wanted to know. Sarai laughed: yes, Arya was just like a younger version of her.

"Well, Arya. In Essos, where I've been living, I am a foremost swordswoman, a protégé of the First Sword of Braavos. I wear a sword, because I know how to use it. Since I was fourteen years old, there has been no opponent that I have not beaten using the water dance." Arya looked dutifully impressed, but Sarai saw a glint of fire in her niece's eyes. Instead of hugging her like Sansa, Sarai knelt before her and looked at her, fussing Arya's hair with her hand.

"And these are Bran and Rickon, your youngest nephews." Catelyn tugged on Sarai's shoulder to make her stand. "Bran is eight, and Rickon is four." At those names, Sarai started.

"After Father and Brandon, correct?" She nodded her head to her nephews, taking in their Tully looks. Bran had brown hair like Ned, but his blue expressive eyes and his smile were his mother's. Rickon… he was too young to tell yet. At four years, his features still had years to change and grow. "Well, little ones, it appears as though I have missed quite a bit. You will have to help me to catch up, if you would like?"

Rickon, quite precocious for a Stark, would have tackled Sarai to the ground if he were Robb's size. Instead, his hug managed to coil around her legs and pin her in place. Bran stood where he was, looking on at the strange woman that called herself his aunt. He would make his own judgments later, once he got to know her more.

Ned, looking at the scene unfolding before him, called for Vayon Poole, his steward. Ever discrete, he set plans for this evening's meal. This meal was going to be an appropriate welcome home for his long lost daughter. A wider smile crossed his face as he gathered all of his children together. "How about we let Sarai get cleaned up? After all, she has been travelling for a while. We can all ask her questions tonight at the evening meal. Come, Sarai." Ned placed a hand on her shoulder. "Your old quarters are still yours."

"Let me get the rest of my possessions from my horse. Hopefully, they are all still intact." She looked to her brother and goodsister, a slight grin on her face that, for the first time that day, seemed forced. "There are things in there that are very valuable to me." Ned, at least, looked momentarily sorry for the actions of his guards. "Until tonight." She nodded and left, her cloak swirling around her feet.

Out in the courtyard, Jory and his guards were waiting for orders when Sarai approached Vayzol and the wagon. Using quiet Dothraki words, she comforted the stallion and gathered her belongings. Taking a quick look at the trunks, she felt safer and hauled them over her shoulders. Ned took the saddlebags from the beast, before telling Jory to bring it to the stables.

There were no words spoken as they spiraled up the stairs of the southern tower. Words would have to wait until this evening. Until then, all of the burning questions that Ned had needed to ask had to wait. From a pocket in his pants, he withdrew an old key. The lock creaked as it turned for the first time in sixteen years, but the door still opened.

"We will see you tonight, Sarai?" Even now, Ned still sounded unsure; it was as if he still feared that Sarai's return was a dream, and that when he woke up, his sister would still be missing.

"Yes, brother." Sarai unceremoniously dumped her belongings on her bed. "If you can have someone send up some water, I would like to clean up."

"Of course!" Ned's hands fidgeted with his clothes. "Would you like a servant to come and help you?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, though." Sarai smiled again, this time a true smile. She walked over and embraced her brother once again, this time without the tears. "It's good to be back, Ned."

As Eddard closed the door behind him, he did not see Sarai's shoulders slump for a moment, nor the sad look in her eyes as she touched the ring on her finger. He was content with the look of her happy eyes and her light hug.


	3. Chapter 3

_Vayan has certainly outdone himself_, Ned thought as he looked around the hall. In the five hours since Sarai's arrival, the main hall had been swept and cleaned. New rushes had been laid out on the floor. The table had been wiped down, making it shine in the dull light. Everything was set just so under his steward's particular eye. After all, this was a special occasion.

Even the children were cleaned and scrubbed to a shine. From his quarters, Ned could hear Arya's yelps as her hair was combed clean of all the plant life it had seemed to accumulate. Now she sat sullen-faced at the table, toying with the goblet of water at her place. Robb and Jon were chatting away between the two of them, with Theon joining in once in awhile. Catelyn was smiling as she talked with Septa Mordane and Sansa. Rodrik and Jory Cassel were talking with everyone, joining in the conversations when they wanted. Everyone was attired in their nicer clothes, as if King Robert Baratheon himself was coming to visit. All that was missing was the guest of honor.

Maester Luwin leaned towards Ned, whispering softly, "It seems rather fortuitous that Sarai should return to you in such a fashion. She reminds me greatly of your other sister and your mother."

"Lyanna always had a taste for the dramatic, yes." Ned was about to add more, but he heard soft footsteps coming down the tower stairs. The conversations slowly stopped as a figure in white appeared from the shadows.

A taste for the dramatic, indeed. The armed swordswoman from before was gone, and instead a woman of noble birth stood in her place as Sarai walked towards her family. The snow-white gown that she was wearing was simple, but elegant. A tight bodice that she had somehow done up herself showed that she was a woman without being overtly immodest. In the dim twilight and candlelight, Ned could make out a subtle silver and grey design. Around her restricted waist was a thin belt of twisted grey and silver ropes, holding a small purse in place. The long sleeves came down to her hands, covering the tops in a loose point. Around her neck were several thin silver chains, as well as the hemp cord that held her pendant. On her left hand were two rings: a small band of silver and a larger band of gold, both on her fourth finger. On the right hand, there was only the one ring: a band of smooth polished black stone on her second finger.

However, it was her face that made him pause. It was like looking at Lyanna again. Her blue eyes had softened into a kind gaze, and he could just pick out a dark grey eye paint that made them shine out of her face. Her tattoo had disappeared, under some kind of face powder most likely. Her raven's black hair was tied off her face into a knot at the base of her neck.

As she walked, the slippers on her feet made little hushing noises against the stone floor. She had impeccable posture, even as she stopped before him and curtsied. The motion seemed just as practiced as when she had sheathed her blade earlier. As she straightened, every man at the table stood from their seats; Theon shot up so quickly that the back of his chair hit the ground.

A small smile crossed Sarai's face. "My apologies, brother, for my tardiness. I got lost coming down from the tower. Winterfell is unfamiliar to me after all these years." Rodrik Cassel moved from his seat, pulling out the chair right of Ned. "Thank you, ser." As he moved away, Sarai placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, ser, for my behavior earlier today. Are your guards all right?"

"Yes, Sarai. They were all seen by Maester Luwin, and he said that their injuries were not too serious." Rodrik bowed his head and sat back. With a nod to Vayan, the meal began.

As the first course was being served, Arya asked the first question of the night. "So, Sarai… what is it like to live in Braavos?" All afternoon, Arya had been asking everyone about Braavos, since Sarai had locked herself in her quarters. Finally, she had a chance for her inquiries to be answered.

Sarai's face lit up as she sipped her wine. "Well, little niece, Braavos is a port city, the main one of the Free Cities of Essos. It is also the major hub on the trade routes. As such, there are peoples from every nation that come in and out with the tides and the moon cycles: people from Westeros, the Free Cities, Meereen, Astapor, Lhazar, Qarth… even the occasional vessel from Ibben, Yi-Ti, Asshai, and other parts of the Shadow Lands. Every ship that comes through the harbor must pass underneath the Titan, a giant bronze statue that guards the city…"

And so it began. In between bites of food and sips of wine, Sarai described life in the port city. She painted the picture with her words and with her hands, showing a paradise in an otherwise heartbreaking situation: a woman of her age should have been at home, living with her husband and caring for her children. However, Sarai did not seem to mind the source of her rather unorthodox education. In fact, the dinner was going splendidly.

It was when Sarai reached across her place for the pitcher of wine, when the sleeve of her gown got caught on a candlestick. Jon was the only one to catch a glimpse. The conversation abruptly stopped when Jon grabbed her wrist. Gently, he turned her arm and pushed her sleeve up to her elbow.

There, from wrist to elbow, were two tattoos done up in the same inky black color as the fist on her cheek. The one closest to her elbow was a bunch of grapes, its leaves flat as the curlicues of vines traced on top of her skin. The one closest to her wrist was far simpler: numbers done in a small and tight manner reading out 'V1945738'.

Sarai, just as gently, took her arm back from Jon and pulled the sleeve back down. The smiling woman of only moments previous was gone. In her place was a different woman, a woman with a stone face.

She saw the question in her brother's face, and she felt compelled to answer. "In Volantis, it is a common practice to tattoo the slaves. It shows what their trade is, and their personality. The fist on my face is a sign that I was a fighter, unwilling to be broken and easily a lot of trouble for possible buyers. The grapes were the mark of my first master: he was a seller of wines. The numbers…" Sarai took hold of her wineglass and took a considerable swallow of its contents. "The numbers were my lot number. It means that I was the one millionth, nine hundred forty-five thousandth, seven hundred thirty-eighth slave to be brought into that particular slave pen in Volantis."

Ned put down his utensils, his appetite completely gone at this point. "Sarai, I believe that you were going to tell us the rest of what happened to you overseas." One look at her brother, and in his place was sitting the Lord of Winterfell. His face was stern, the grey streaks in his black hair showing that he had seen far more than his forty years. He looked so much like Father, that Sarai suppressed a shudder.

"It is not a story for young ears." She looked carefully at her nieces and nephews. She may not have known any of them beyond their names and their ages at this point, but they were still her family. No child should hear what she had to say.

"Winter is coming, Sarai." Her brother repeated their words to her. "There is little time for childhood nowadays. Let us all hear what happened."

Sarai picked up the wine pitcher, refilling her glass. She was going to need a measure of liquid courage to tell her story. "After… after I was kidnapped, the slavers kept us all below decks in their ship. All I knew is that we set sail from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I was one of the older children. All around me were others wailing and weeping, begging to go home. To keep us quiet, the slavers began to use milk of the poppy on us. I only knew about this because I heard the sailors talk about it above deck. They were going to lace our drinking water with it, to keep us docile.

"When they began to pass out the drugged water, I fought them all. I refused to drink anything more than a sip or eat anything more than an occasional bite, even when they tried to hold me down. When I refused, they resorted to the cane, and then to the whip. Still, I fought them. I broke fingers, bit off skin. I became feral on that trip: no one came near me that did not receive an injury or lose blood.

"When we reached Volantis, I was the first to be brought off the ship, to be sold to the slave pens. My cast was dirty and moldy, my various wounds were red and inflamed, and my injuries were barely hidden by the remnants of my dress. They took me off the ship, and forced me to drink milk of the poppy, more than the usual dose. I remembered being restrained to a table, a strap holding my face to one side, before it was black.

"When I woke up, my hands were tied behind me. My face and wrist were bandaged, and underneath the cloth, I felt nothing but pain. My other injuries had been treated: cleaned and wrapped up to prevent infection. I had on a short tunic, and nothing else."

Sarai took a drink from her goblet, but her face showed that she was far away from Winterfell. She was back in Volantis, a frightened child. "I remained in the pens for three days. Possible owners would come by and look over the slaves, picking out their favourites. The brand on my cheek made it nearly impossible for me to be sold. By the end of the fifth day, if I had not bought, then I would have been sold to the fighter pens of Slaver's Bay.

"When Dustran came around looking for a child to help him with his stock, he picked me. I don't know if it was out of pity or kindness, it didn't matter. He picked me, exchanged the monies agreed, and brought me to the tattooist to add his symbol to my arm. I was his now, until my death or until he saw fit to get rid of me."

Once again, Sarai took a drink from her glass, but the stone façade was beginning to fade. With a rather unladylike shrug of her shoulders, she continued. "At first, it wasn't such a hardship. The food wasn't laced with drugs, and I could look forward to days without lashings or canings. He let me sleep with a blanket on the ground, which was a lot better than the salty wet wooden boards. He gave me fresh clothes, and looked after my injuries as I healed. Best of all, he taught me how to tell the wines apart, how to tell a good wine from a bad wine, and how to pair wines with food."

She picked up her goblet, and showed them. Ned had the good silver goblets out, so she reached into the pouch at her side and pulled out a small crystal phial. Pouring a small amount from the goblet into the phial, Sarai proceeded to stare into it against the white of her gown, smell it, and taste it in different manners. When she was finished, she turned to Vayan Poole. "Master Poole, tonight, chose a Dornish red to serve with the venison. It's approximately two to four years old, a relative younger vintage. It was spiced with cloves during its curing process, making it quite an appropriate drink for tonight. Is that correct?" She looked up to him, waiting for his baffled response.

Placing the phial down on the table, Sarai looked back at her family when Vayan Poole nodded yes. "The wine from that same vineyard in Dorne, and many others like it, were what Dustran sold. Lys, the Arbor, Dorne, Volantis, the Summer Islands… Andalish sours and Tyroshi pear brandy… sweet reds and dry golds… summer wine and spiced wines. That became my speech. That, and 'food for my master, sir or madam.'

"Everywhere I went, to each of the Free Cities, I learned what I could. I tried to pick up bits of language, of culture. By the time I was eleven, I could speak passable Lysene, Tyroshi, and Volantene. But, good things never last."

Sarai drained the goblet in her hand, refilling it for the third time that night. "I never found out why Dustran changed. When I came back with his food, it was a cuff on the ear if he thought me to be late. If he didn't make what he had expected to by way of a profit, I would be caned. So that I couldn't escape, not that I had given him reason, he placed a collar around my neck like a dog, tying me to his cart. I would kneel in front of his barrels, chanting out my call in the languages around me. The worst was when we would travel: he would make me run alongside the cart, not letting me at least sit among the barrels.

"When we came to Braavos, I was twelve. Dehydrated, malnourished, bruised, broken… I was no longer the direwolf that I was when I lived here. Dustran got thoroughly drunk and gave me the worst beating of my short life. He left me in an alley, abandoning me but not before telling me that I was worthless to him, the worst investment he had ever made."

Sarai stopped at the moment, drinking from her cup. She took in the tears running down her goodsister's face, as Catelyn silently wept at the travesties that she had been forced to go through. She took in the stiff postures of Ned, Robb, Jon, Theon, Rodrik, and Jory, their faces tight with fury. She saw that her younger nieces and nephews did not truly comprehend. To them, it was little more than a tale, and she a mysterious stranger claiming familial ties.

Sarai brought her hand to her neck, feeling the scars of the collar against her fingertips. "I don't remember exactly how many days I laid in that alley. All that I do remember is how much I wanted to die: to never be a slave again, to be free to roam the wolfswood again. I was in and out of fevered delusions: I could see Father kneeling before me, or Brandon or Lyanna motioning for me to join in their play. I remember the black, the hunger, and the thirst. The thirst was the worst: the clawing at the back of your throat, the feeling of your body's weakness.

"I don't remembering slipping into unconsciousness. From that point, the first thing that I did remember was the feel of a soft bed underneath me. My hair was clinging to my face, as I moaned in my fever. I thought that it was another one of my delusions. But… it wasn't. A man held a glass of water to my lips, and told me to take small sips. I don't remember if I thanked him or not. The next time I woke, the fever was gone but the man was still there. He helped me to sit up in the bed, talking to me all the while.

"That man was Syrio Forel, the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos." For the first time since she had begun to tell her story, Sarai smiled. "He wanted to know what had happened to me, but he insisted on caring for me as well. When I was too weak to feed myself the broths he gave me, he would spoon them into my mouth. As I tried to walk around, he was there as a support for me to lean on. He changed the bandages that he had wrapped around my wounds, and made sure that I was comfortable enough to sleep." Her smile grew wider, but it was tinged with the sadness of before. "The first words out of my mouth, after 'thank you', were about his sword. I wanted to learn how to fight, so that this would not happen again.

"He laughed at my question, telling me that I would need to recover all of my strength if I was to learn the water dance." She shook her head a few times. "When I had fully regained my strength, he bargained with me. Because I was twelve, I would learn from other teachers until I was fourteen. Once I was fourteen, then I would learn the ways of the water dance from him for twelve years. After that, I could go home." She looked at her brother, a sad smile on her face. "What else could I do? I agreed, shaking his hand to seal the bargain.

"The day after we made our agreement, I was brought before the Sealord of Braavos. Somehow, Syrio had found a dress for me to wear, but it wasn't enough. I was quite rusty on my manners. I was amazed that I didn't insult the man." This time, Sarai drank water to clear her throat. "It is the tradition of Braavos that, when the First Sword takes on an apprentice that is not of his direct blood line, he must go before the Sealord and petition for either an adoption or for permission to raise the apprentice under his aegis until said apprenticeship is complete. So, that is what Syrio did: in a single hour, I became his foster-daughter. The next day, I left Braavos with my first teacher.

"For the next two years, I travelled western and central Essos. Beginning from Vaes Dothrak, then to Qarth and the cities of Slaver's Bay, Qohor, Volantis, Lys, Myr, Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath, I learned what my tutors had me learn. From archery and horseback riding from a _kho _in Vaes Dothrak, to how to haggle in Pentos, to cartography in Norvos… I learned, I absorbed, and I learned more. Languages were learned quickly, or else I would starve.

"Upon my return to Braavos after Lorath, Syrio took me again before the Sealord and his wife. Lord and Lady Merciel took one look at me and laughed. 'This is your mystery apprentice, my Sword?' Lady Merciel took one look at me, and demanded that I undergo her apprenticeship as well, in order to train me in the ways of the Eastern Lady. The three of them came to an agreement before my eyes, and then Syrio turned to face me. 'Is this truly what you wish to do, little Brighteyes? If you decide to go, that is within your right. But know that if you go, then you cannot come back.' I curtsied deeply, trying to remember all that the septa had drilled into me, and said, 'Yes'."

Sarai took another break from her story, watching the reactions of all those around her. Her brother and his wife had relaxed in their chairs. All of her nieces and nephews, even Theon and Jory, were leaning on the table, hanging onto her words. Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, and Septa Mordane all had stone faces.

"For the next twelve years, I learned and I lived. Braavos became my home, after travelling to so many places. In the mornings, I would learn the water dance with Syrio, the dance of the Essos swordsman that he had mastered. In the afternoons, I would learn the ways of being a lady from Lady Merciel. On some days, I would learn with Lord Merciel's sons about military philosophies, strategies, and tactical maneuvers.

"After my first challenge at the age of fourteen, Syrio added additional lessons for what he called 'the dance of the Westeros, the knight's dance'. He wanted me to be proficient in more than one way of the sword, to keep my opponents guessing. He eventually added an instructor from the Summer Islands to teach me the ways of unarmed hand-to-hand combat, in the dire event that I might not have any weapons on me.

"Lady Merciel, once the lunch meal was complete, would summon me into her solar and there would begin her own lessons. You would have liked her, Catelyn." She looked to the Tully woman. "Lady Merciel was stern and demanding of perfection, but she was maternal in those demands. In a roundabout way, I was her only daughter, if only by claim. From walking and conversing, to embroidery and singing, to playing instruments and running a household, I learned it all."

Sarai paused for a moment, smiling deeply. "Those skills came into use six years ago, when I married." The table burst into talking, but Ned lifted his hand to silence them. "His name is Jaqen Merciel, the third son of Lord Merciel. He is living in Braavos with our sons, finishing up affairs. He will come within a year, and then we hope to live here, in Winterfell."

"But of course, Sarai. He is family." Ned nodded, a smile breaking his face. "You said, 'sons'?"

"Yes." From that same pouch around her waist, Sarai pulled out a portrait and passed it to Ned. "Rickard is the oldest, at five. He was studying with his teachers to follow in Jaqen's footsteps as a trader, but perhaps he can study with Maester Luwin?" The elderly maester nodded once. "Tycho is only three. He is the last born grandchild of Lord Merciel."

"To finish my story, Lord Merciel had died not days before I turned twenty-six, from a long-lasting illness. This freed Syrio from his obligations as the First Sword. The terms of our bargain were complete, and Syrio and I left for Westeros."

Sarai looked around at everyone; the candles had near melted to the table. "And so the tale is finished. I have come back to Winterfell, my first home." A smile graced her face.

"And may you never find cause to leave us soon, Sarai." Ned raised his wineglass to her, before downing the goblet and calling the meal to a close. It had been a long day, and no one knew what the next day would bring them.


	4. Chapter 4

Arya was always a light sleeper. Ever since she was a child, she would sleep as if with only one eye open. Getting up with the sunrise was no problem for her. Usually at this time, she would explore the keep and learn something new about any of the people who lived here in Winterfell. Her favourite activity was running across the battlements, jumping from parapet to parapet.

What she learned this morning was that Aunt Sarai woke up even earlier than she did, and that she was far stronger than she originally appeared to be. With her sword leaning against the wall, Aunt Sarai stood on top of the parapet; it was almost like she was a statue. Somehow, her mysterious aunt was balancing all of her weight on the middle toe of her left foot without swaying or going off-kilter. Her other foot rested against the inner thigh of her left leg, and her hands were pressed together in front of her chest. Sweat made her thin clothes cling to her.

As Arya got closer, Aunt Sarai spoke up and startled her youngest niece. "Good morning, little one." Relaxing her left foot, Sarai opened her eyes and stared out at the sunrise peeking over the horizon. Slowly, she lowered her other foot to the ground, standing on both of them until she turned to sit on the parapet and gaze at Arya.

"Good morning, Aunt Sarai." Arya fidgeted for a few moments as Sarai stared at her with a look that pierced right through her. "Why are you up so early?"

Sarai bent down to sit on the frosty stone, not showing any sign of feeling the cold. "I always get up around this time, to greet the day and to exercise. And you, little one?" Sarai slung one of her legs over the wall to swing lackadaisically.

"I always get up early." Arya began to reach for Sarai's sword, and received a slap on the wrist for her troubles.

Sarai's eyes bored into Arya, making the girl fearful of her aunt for the first time. "That is not a toy, Arya." Sarai reached for her sword and buckled it around her waist. Hopping off the parapet and onto the wall, Sarai looked down to Arya. "Come, let's go back inside where it's warmer, and we can speak some more."

_She's like Bran, _Arya thought to herself. Aunt Sarai was fearless as she navigated the tops of the wall with easy steps. She had not been home for even a day, and Arya had a sense that Sarai knew Winterfell in and out. But then, why did she say that she had gotten lost last night? Shaking her head, Arya thought nothing of it. Besides, they were there.

Sarai pushed open the door to the tower room and beckoned Arya in. This was the first time that Arya had been in this room. Mother had always kept it locked, coming in to clean it herself before locking it once more. Now, it gleamed with life.

Sarai placed her sword on top of the trunk at the foot of her bed and tied back the tapestry at her window, letting in the light. Arya sat down on her aunt's bed, the furs still in disarray from when she had gotten up this morning. Sarai, it seems, had taken to their family name in the most literal sense. There was little decoration anywhere in the room. Aside from the direwolf tapestry across her window, the only other decorations were the pelts on her bed.

With the fire beginning to roar against the south wall of the room, the oak of the writing desk and washing table gleamed with a recent oiling. On the writing desk were three stacks of books that appeared to be read often, as well as fresh writing supplies. Near to her bed was another table with a candle, the portrait she had shown them all last night, and a few more books. That was it.

On the far wall, almost hidden in the shadows, was a weapons rack. Arya gaped at all the weapons that she saw there. A strange curved hook-like blade stood next to a quiver full of arrows. Her black bow was unstrung and hanging innocuously next to a belt of daggers. Two short swords, a long axe and a battle-axe, small and long daggers… all of them shone with polish and care. There was a space missing for Sarai's sword.

Aunt Sarai had placed a cauldron of water over the fire as it heated, and now she filled up her wash basin with scalding water. Placing it on the table, she turned back to her youngest sister. "So, Arya, why are you up so early?" She stripped off her tunic and turned her back to Arya.

Arya did not answer. Her eyes transfixed on Aunt Sarai's back. Last night, when she told everyone that she had been whipped and caned as a slave, Arya could not believe her. Even up here in the North, where the cold was long and hard, children were not beaten. Yet, Sarai's back was riddled with old scars. There were long straight ones that ran along her lower back, and shorter ones that ran along her entire back in multiple directions. There were also old welts and burn scars, as if someone had held a torch to her back.

"Arya?" Sarai straightened up, water dripping from her face. "What's wrong?"

"Your back." Arya was in a bit of shock. "You were telling the truth?"

"It was a far-fetched tale, wasn't it?" Sarai went to her trunk and rifled around for a small flask. Uncapping it, she passed it to a stiff Arya. "Have a sip. It helps." She knelt in front of her youngest niece, watching her take a sip and making a face at the taste. "I didn't say that it would taste nice." The tattoo on Sarai's cheek wrinkled as she laughed.

"What was that?" Arya rubbed her tongue to get rid of the taste. It was like swallowing dirt and rotten leaves.

"A tonic that one of my Dothraki teachers taught me how to make. It helps to bring your mind out of a state." Sarai tucked the bottle back in her trunk, and knelt in front of her niece. "Yes, Arya. I was telling the truth." She raised her hand and held Arya's cheek in her palm. "You're so innocent, little one."

Sarai stood up and went back to her washbasin, continuing where she had left off. "You never answered my question. What wakes you up at this early hour of the morning?"

Arya shook her head. "Everyone is getting up at this time. The soldiers, Mikken, the stable hands… They're interesting to talk to, when I don't stop their work."

Sarai nodded her head as she dried her face off. Arya's next question caught Sarai off guard. "How long have you carried that sword?"

"I earned that honor when I was fourteen years old and I began my lessons with Syrio." Not caring that she wore nothing except her breeches, Sarai reached over and unsheathed her sword, showing Arya the rippling pattern in the blade. "This is Riptide. Syrio told me that it, and the blades that go with it, are passed down through his family. He told me that, because I am his daughter by claim and that because his wife had died before they could have children, that I was the only family that he had left. If he wants to be trained in the ways of the sword, and when he is old enough, it will pass on to Rickard, your cousin."

Arya watched in silence as Sarai dressed herself for the day. The style of clothes was foreign to what she was used to. The first to be put on was a pair of loose leather pants that laced up at her hips instead of at her front. Over that went an odd-looking dress: blue-grey in color, it was slit four times from her ankles to halfway up her thigh. The sleeves were not too snug around her shoulders or arms, but they tapered into wide cuffs that covered her hands. After that, went a vest that hugged her torso and chest, and that tied up on both sides from her hips to just above her chest. It seemed to serve as a corset. One of the last touches was a belt that she secured just under her corset, on which she secured Riptide in its sheath. She tied another dagger to her other side. On her feet went sturdy leather boots, suitable for both walking and running in.

Arya began to feel out-of-place as Sarai combed out her hair and tied it back into a club at the nape of her neck. It was strange for her. Sarai was a warrior: she had proved it yesterday when she took down those five soldiers. Today, and last night, Sarai seemed to transform into a lady like her mother with little effort. What was she, a warrior or a lady? Only when Sarai turned to her and smiled did Arya feel any better.

"Come here, little one." Sarai tapped the back of the chair. Arya was not expecting that Sarai would comb out her hair. When she tried to stand up, Sarai placed an iron hand on her shoulder to keep her in her seat. "Arya, a lady must look her best. However, practicality insists that your hair be braided and out of your eyes if you wish to learn from me."

Arya tried to turn her head to ask, but Sarai kept her head in place. "I saw you eyeing Riptide. Last night, your eyes shone as you heard me describe my lessons with Syrio and my other instructors. If you would like me to, I can teach you more about the deadly arts."

Arya barely felt the comb through her hair or Sarai's fingers as they began to manipulate and pull at it. All she could think about was her own excitement. "Yes, please! I would love that!" She settled into the chair and vowed not to move to disturb Aunt Sarai again.

She felt a finger tap against her ear. "However, you will do it my way. I do not teach in a similar way to the men-at-arms here at Winterfell. If you agree, then you will not argue. If you do, I will stop teaching and will not offer the chance again. If you wish to stop of your own free will, then the lessons will stop, and the offer will not be broached again. This is your only chance." Arya felt her hair being tied. "Do you agree?"

"Yes, Aunt Sarai." Arya grew formal, wanting to impress her aunt so badly. She was unlike Sansa, who loved being a lady. Sarai had her own sword, and she could not wait to see how she used it.

"Good." There was a gentle pat on her head. "Now, that's better." Sarai placed the handle of a mirror in her hand. Arya saw herself, but her hair looked so different. Her eyes grew wide. Sarai had tied half of her hair into a horsetail, before gathering up the rest and braiding it all together. Swinging her head experimentally, Arya could feel no tug or strain.

What was stranger, was that Arya looked almost like a girl. Sansa looked like this all the times: always trying to be pretty for boys. Arya did not like that. She would rather watch Mikken forge swords, or go to lessons with Maester Luwin. She did not like it that Jeyne and other girls called her 'Arya Horse-face'. However, at this moment, she looked like a lady.

"Come, Arya. I suspect that your father and mother are waiting for us to join them for breakfast." Another tap on her shoulder startled Arya out of her thoughts and had her following Sarai down the stairs.

Everyone was sitting at the table, sharing breakfast. Ned's face lit up as Sarai walked over to him. He reached up and grabbed her hand, smiling up at her as she sat next to him. Arya quickly sat down next to Sarai, mimicking everything that Sarai did. Sarai smiled as she dipped into the bread and bacon. Gods, she missed northern food! In Braavos, everything was spiced and sauced and they tasted wonderful. However, she would get strange looks at first when she asked for simple plain bread and fish. Eventually she got used to the cuisine, but tasting that smoky bread made her moan. That, and some dark ale? Gods, she missed this!

Robb elbowed her in the side, interrupting her good mood. "So, Aunt Sarai, Father told us that you used to run wild around Winterfell. Was it true?"

Sarai nearly spat out her bread in disbelief. "Eddard! How dare you malign my character!" She turned to her nephew. "I was the Lady of Winterfell after… after your grandfather died. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She smiled. "Before your grandfather died, I was quite a direwolf." She chuckled in her food. "But… circumstances forced me to grow up in quite a hurry."

"Well, then, a challenge is in order!" Robb slapped his hand on the table and chortled. "You and I will race in the wolfswood, and we'll see who is the faster! Then you can face Theon with your bow, and Ser Rodrik with your sword."

"No, she won't." The table grew quiet and everyone turned to look at Catelyn Tully. "Sarai is going to be fitted for new clothes, and then she's going to spend the day with me. She will be a Westerosi lady. I will have my daughters around no more violence."

Sarai sucked on her teeth and drank the rest of the ale in her cup. "Catelyn." She waited a moment to find the right words. Her face was calm, and only her knuckles growing white around her cup gave away anything. "You may be my brother's wife, but you will not presume to order me around. I will gladly spend time with my nieces. However, I will not give up my sword. I will spend the afternoon with Robb, Jon, and my nephews, and I will train with them. Your children will not stay children for longer, and winter is coming. They must learn about the harsher side of their responsibilities if they are to be just and fair lords and ladies of the North." She pushed herself away from the table. "I am six and twenty, Catelyn: an adult in this land. I am capable of making my own choices. Excuse me, Ned: I've letters to write."

She pushed herself away from the table, and bowed her head towards her brother. With a pivot on her heel, she walked quietly back to her tower room. When Catelyn tried to come in, she found the door locked and Sarai refusing her entry. She needed only to wait an hour, for Sarai came out with letters in hand and a bag on her shoulder. Tucking the letters into her bag, she made her way to her goodsister's room.

Sarai considered herself a patient woman. Both Syrio and Lady Merciel had reinforced that virtue into her during her training, until she could wait days, even weeks, before undergoing tasks. In her morning training, she would wait in her postures for fifteen breaths, moving from toe to toe and alternating each foot. She considered herself to be patient.

So when her goodsister had her draped with various fabrics and began talking to her seamstress about dresses, Sarai put a stop to it after ten minutes. She looked at Catelyn, and just let the ebb of her anger show. "Since I will be wearing these, I will have my opinion taken into account." Without even pausing, Sarai turned her head to the seamstress and began anew.

"This colours are perfect. Please, make a dress or two tunics from each color: linen for the tunics, and thick wool for the dresses." She ran her hand along various swathes of linen and wool fabrics. They were all deep jewel colors, ranging from the pure white of the night before, to sapphire blues and forest greens, to silvers and blacks. She picked out chestnut browns and storm greys. She wrinkled her nose at the light colors, especially those of pink. "They do not need to be cut fancily, nor do they need to be the latest fashions. If I lend you a gown that I prefer, can you copy the style?" The seamstress nodded, her mouth slavering at the custom of this Stark woman.

"I shall require pants, of thick wool and leather. They must be simple and clean-cut. And of course, under-tunics of wool." Catelyn tried to raise her voice in disagreement, but Sarai cut her down with a gaze. "If you know of a cobbler, I will have three pairs each of leather boots and lady's slippers." Sarai put her hands on her hips and looked at the seamstress. "What is your price?"

The seamstress looked between Sarai and the Lady Stark, her face showing her torn confusion. "I was told that the Lady Stark was behind this commission."

"No. I buy my own clothes." Sarai tucked two fingers under the seamstress' chin and brought her face towards her. "What is your price?"

"Let me first take your measurements, Lady Sarai, and then we will discuss price." She whipped out a knotted cord and took careful records of Sarai's dimensions. Sarai stayed in her clothes for the measuring, looking at Catelyn's reddening face.

"It will be at least three days for the first set of clothes." The seamstress tapped her finger against her lips. "Say, one thousand gold dragons for the lot."

Sarai tilted her head back and laughed, before looking at the woman with a leveled gaze. "Five hundred gold dragons."

"Nine hundred. I have to include threads, labour, time."

"Six hundred." Sarai raised her eyebrows. "Unless you plan on adding Myrish lace to the designs or sewing with pure gold, that is a fair price."

"Make it seven hundred, and I'll have the entire order done for you within three weeks."

"Done!" Sarai reached out her hand to the woman to shake. "You barter well. I look forward to seeing your work." Sarai pulled her bag over from where she had left it on the bed. "I will pay you half now, and half when the order is finished." She pulled out a coin bag and handed it to the seamstress. "You can count it, if you wish."

"My thanks, Lady Sarai! Lady Stark." The seamstress curtsied to them both before she left the room. She did not count the coins.

Catelyn looked at Sarai, and frowned. "Pants, Sarai? Boots?" Her frown deepened. "Why do you insist on playing the part of a man? It is not suitable for a lady of Westeros."

"For a multitude of reasons, Catelyn. Pants are far more practical to train in than dresses. Boots allow me the grip on the ground without ruining dainty silk designs or falling head over heel. The clothes that I wear will not reflect poorly on House Stark, nor do they advertise that I am a loose woman. In addition, what you and I classify a lady as are quite different. In Braavos, women are allowed to bear arms, to own a home, and to run a business, all of which I did." Sarai walked back to her bag.

"But you are home now." Catelyn seemed hurt, but Sarai had her fill of her goodsister's manipulations this morning. She waited until she finished strapping her sword back onto her waist.

"Winterfell was once my home, and may it be again soon enough. However, for the last sixteen years, Braavos has been my home. I have been in Westeros for not even two weeks. It will take time for me to adjust back to the northern ways." Sarai turned a level gaze at her goodsister. "I will not change my ways overnight, Catelyn, just because you command it. I'm a lady from one of the finest courts in the known world, but I am also one of the most feared swordswomen in Braavos." Sarai let the strap of her bag settle on her shoulder and turned towards the door. "Don't fear, Catelyn: I won't bring shame to the Stark name." With that, Sarai left her goodsister to her thoughts.

Walking on quiet feet, Sarai made her way to the sewing room. Only Septa Mordane was present. The old woman's spine straightened at the sight of the returned lost Stark. Sarai faced her and bowed her head, just as she was taught. "Septa, I was requested by my goodsister to join my nieces in their sewing lesson today. I hope that this will not be an inconvenience to you?"

"Of course not. Please, take a seat." The older woman frowned at the sword at her side, but Sarai sat like a lady in skirts. "I trust that you learned your lessons well with the First Lady?"

"Yes, Septa. She was quite thorough in her education." Sarai smiled and reached into her bag, pulling out an embroidery hoop and thread. "Oh, before I forget." She placed her hoop aside, and undid her sword from her belt. "Septa, I leave this in your safekeeping. Please, be careful with it. I would hate for you to injure yourself." She placed her sword in the septa's hands. "While Syrio made me promise to bring my sword with me wherever I went, Lady Merciel made me swear to take it off during our lessons."

Septa Mordane was shocked when Sarai took off her sword, but she placed it gently against the wall. "I will watch out for it, Sarai. You will get it back at the end of the lesson."

"My thanks, Septa." Sarai took up the silks once more and quietly began to sew. She was like this even as other young girls came in, chattering quietly and waiting for the septa to hand out supplies. Arya was the last to come in, huffing with a scowl on her face and sitting in the spot next to her aunt. Sarai barely looked up from her work, but she kept track of her niece's movements.

Soon, Septa Mordane began to make the rounds through the room. Sarai was first, and she showed the septa what she had been quietly sewing. An intricate wolf's head in various shades of grey was finished, a replica from the Stark sigil. Around its edges was a nearly finished border of red leaves, the same shade as those of the heart tree. "My, Sarai! This is exceptional!" Septa Mordane extolled her tight and even stitches, her beautiful design.

Sarai smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Septa. It will be done soon, and then it will become a part of an offering to the old gods for my safe return home." She ran her fingers over the silks, grinning at her work.

Septa Mordane smiled and continued her walk about. Sansa received praise as well, but when the rounds came to Arya, the septa shook her head. "Arya, you must try to do better. This is not good enough."

Arya tossed down the hoop and made to run away, but a firm grip on the back of her dress kept her in place. Twisting, she saw that Sarai had her sewing hoop in one hand and the back of her dress in another. "Let me go! I hate this!"

"Arya! A lady never runs, and she never yells!" Septa Mordane started to sound condescending, but Sarai's level gaze made her pause.

"Arya, sit down. Now." Sarai's voice was so like their father's, Arya instantly obeyed. Sarai kept a hand on her younger niece's knee. "You will sit, and you will listen." Sarai took a deep even breath and stared at her niece. "Lesson the first: patience. You must cultivate it if you are going to survive in this world.

"You may claim that you don't want to be a lady, but you are one. You must learn the skills of one, and you must act like one. You may still be yourself, but you must behave as your station commands you to." Sarai's words cut through the quiet classroom.

"But… but… I hate this!" Arya tried to get Sarai to understand. She hated sewing. Sansa was the lady in the family. She was not good at any of the lady arts: sewing, dancing, or even dressing.

"I know, but if you choose to run, your lessons with me are over." Sarai removed her hand from Arya's knee, giving her the chance to leave. Arya had made her choice, and she sat back down. "Now, let us fix this. First, come sit in the light. Good light helps for you to see what you're working on."

Sarai looked over Arya's work. "Ah, this is an easy fix!" After that, Sarai curled her head towards Arya and helped her out. It turned out that Arya's fabric was too loose in the frame, causing her stitching to become uneven. With some little tips, Arya had a simple design done. It was straight, even, and far better than anything Arya had done before.

When Arya showed the septa, Septa Mordane was in shock. "Arya! This is… well done! How?"

"Just a simple suggestion, Septa." Sarai packed away her project. "Instead of leveling praise at one sister and berating the other, try to help without condescension. Be equal with both, and both pupils will do better." Sarai picked up Riptide and walked out, leaving the girls of the room in shock.


End file.
